The preparations for this ceremony gave rise to a still more exciting drama at the National Assembly.  At the opening of the sitting, a member demanded that the forty soldiers of Chateauvieux should be admitted to pay their respects to the legislative body.  M. de Jaucourt opposed it:  “If these soldiers,” said he, “are only admitted to express their gratitude, I consent to their being admitted to the bar; but I demand that afterwards they be not allowed to remain during the debate.”  The speaker was interrupted by loud murmurs, and cries of a bas! a bas! from the tribunes.  “An amnesty is neither a triumph nor a civic crown,” continued he; “you cannot dishonour the names of the brave Desilles, or of those generous citizens who perished defending the laws against them; you cannot lacerate by this triumph the hearts of those among you who took part in the expedition of Nancy.  Allow a soldier, who was ordered on this expedition with his regiment, to point out to you the effects this decision would have on the army. (The murmurs redouble.) The army will see in your conduct only an encouragement to insurrection; and these honours will lead the soldiers to believe that you look on these men, whom an amnesty has freed, not as men whose punishment was too severe, but as innocent victims.”  The tumult here became so great that M. de Jaucourt was forced to descend.  But one of the members, who, it is evident to all, was almost overpowered by emotion, took his place.  It was M. de Gouvion, a young officer, whose name was already gloriously inscribed in the early pages of the annals of our wars.  He was clothed in deep black, and every feature of his face wore an expression of intense grief, which inspired the Assembly with involuntary interest, and the tumult was instantly changed into attention.  His voice was tremulous and scarcely audible at first; it was evident that indignation as much as sorrow choked his utterance.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I had a brother, a good patriot, who, through the estimation in which he was held by his fellow citizens, had been successively elected commandant of the national guard, and member for the department.  Ever ready to sacrifice himself for the revolution and the law, it was in the name of the revolution and the law that he was called upon to march to Nancy at the head of the brave national guards, and there he fell pierced by five bayonet-wounds, and by the hand of those who, ...  I demand, if I am condemned to behold here the assassins of my brother.”  “Well, then, leave the chamber,” cried a stern voice.  The tribunes applauded this speech, more cruel and poignant than the thrust of a dagger.  Indignation enabled M. de Gouvion to overcome his contempt.  “Who is the dastard who himself in order to insult the grief of a brother?” cried he, glancing around to discover the speaker.  “I will tell my name—­’tis I,” replied the deputy Choudieu, rising from his seat.  Loud applause from the tribunes followed this insult